


anarchy for sale! t-shirts only ten dollars

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (also mostly in passing), (mostly in passing), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dating, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Puns & Word Play, Skater Victor Nikiforov, copious use of emdashes, embarrassing first meeting, sexual t-shirt slogans, terrible t-shirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 14:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: Because the universe is somehow both cruel and indifferent, Yuuri sees Victor again two days later in the lobby of his ballet studio. He’s just finished his advanced pointe workshop. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, he's painted with a full body flush, and he's wearing a shirt Phichit custom ordered that says “Tastier Than Katsudon” in screaming neon orange.“Hi Yuuri!” Victor’s beaming and blocking his only exit.____________A falling-in-love story told through questionable t-shirts.





	anarchy for sale! t-shirts only ten dollars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [YOI Fic Fridays](http://yoificfridays.tumblr.com). I don't know how this became t-shirt centric but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I ain't mad about it. 
> 
> Some of these shirts do exist, some I made up. You can guess in the comments??? (I'll post the ones that are real on my tumblr, I hate embedding links in AO3 author's notes). EDIT:  here's the shirt post!
> 
> I'm here on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) for those of you who just REALLY NEED TO KNOW about those t-shirts.
> 
> Title is from "Anarchy for Sale" by the Dead Kennedys.
> 
> Bonus literary theory grumbling in the end notes....for those who are into that sort of thing???

It starts like this: a few weeks after he moves in with Yuuri, Phichit comes home from the mall with four Cinnabons, a plastic shopping bag stuffed with clothing, and a devious expression.

“Yuuri, did you know that Spencer's Gifts is running a two for one sale on t-shirts?”

Yuuri did know.

Phichit continues, “I got some for you since most of your practice shirts are falling apart.”

“They’re fine!” Yuuri protests.

“No, they’re a disaster. You’re a disaster. And I’m a disaster as a friend for letting this continue so long,” Phichit places the bag on the table and pulls out a shirt. It says “Orgasm Donor,” in blinding white capital letters.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Phichit chirps before pulling out another shirt (burgundy this time) that says,  “(Stiff) Members Only,” and then after that one that says, “Writing Porn: It Comes Easily."

“These are terrible. Puns are terrible.”

“Puns are the basis of all great literature. I’ll send you my citations.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only one of us in lying in this conversation and it certainly isn’t me.”

“That sounds like something a liar would say.”

“We’re entering [Cretan paradox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epimenides_paradox) territory, Yuuri. Besides, I’m not lying. Just ask Shakespeare.”

“I can’t ask him, Phichit. He’s dead.”

Phichit sighs, “Why are you always so hung up on details? This is why we can't have nice things.”

When Phichit figures out how to custom order shirts (“pre-fabricated shirts don't deserve your beauty! Besides, anyone could have one of those shirts, you deserve the best!”), he starts giving Yuuri awful t-shirts for every possible holiday.  

Even Arbour Day ("Did I Just Turn Into A Tree? Because You're Giving Me Wood").

____________________________________________

 

It escalates when Yuri asks Yuuri to watch his cat—Potya—for the week ("you owe me Katsudon. Don't forget who helped you with your fouettes,"). Yuuri doesn’t know what he expected when he agreed to watch Yuri’s cat for the week. Some scratches maybe. A few fights between Potya and Vicchan, almost certainly. Yuri’s supposed to come by this afternoon to take Potya home. Yuuri’s spent the better part of his afternoon coaxing Potya out of hiding with treats and attempting to corner her into her carrier—only for Potya to pull a dine and dash.

Yuuri definitely doesn’t expect to open his front door to the most beautiful man he’s ever seen while covered in a thick blanket of kitty litter and cat hair with a pair of boxer briefs crowning his head.

His armpits are stained with sweat, he hasn’t showered in two days, and he’s pretty sure his shirt is on backwards. All this in the face of a beatifically beaming stranger who’s leaning against the doorframe like it’s his apartment and not Yuuri’s.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m here to pick up Potya! Yuri’s grandfather needed him at the cafe today—one of the baristas called in sick last minute."

Yuuri can't tell if he's grateful or mortified for the interruption.

“Yuri said you’d have her ready,” Beautiful Stranger continues, edging his way into Yuuri’s apartment. Did Yuuri invite him in? He can’t remember. He must have. Time isn’t working right. It might be next week for all he knows.  Why does Beautiful Stranger look vaguely familiar?

“Oh uh…”

(Yuuri.exe has stopped working. Please wait a full minute for the program to come back online.)

He needs to hide under the covers immediately so he can pretend this is a dream. Yuuri’s all about wallowing in denial so he might as well get back in bed and make the delusion as realistic as he can.

But first, he needs to pull the boxers off his head. He tosses them in a corner. They deserve a time out.

“…come in,” Yuuri says, when Beautiful Stranger is already halfway across his living room.  He turns away from Beautiful Stranger to indulge in a moment of panic, his face twisting into various expressions of horror. He realizes too late there’s a mirror on the wall facing the door, and Beautiful Stranger can—and probably did—see every one of his facial contortions.

“Wow you’re certainly prepared,” Beautiful Stranger says with a wink. Oh god. Potya’s not even in her carrier. This is a _disaster_.

“She kept scamming me for treats. I’ve been trying to get her ready for the last two hours,” Yuuri says, biting his lip.

“Oh yeah, Potya’s a little asshole— just like Yuri,” Beautiful Stranger chuckles, “but that’s not what I meant,” he gestures at the eviscerated remains of a cardboard box and the huge mess of foil packets littering the floor.

Yuuri pales; his face will never return to its normal skin tone. In his desperation to get Yuri’s cat ready, he’d forgotten to clean up the box of condoms Potya and Vicchan had dragged out from under the couch and then thoroughly destroyed.

“Those are my roommate’s,” Yuuri stammers.

“What a shame he won’t share, safety is sexy after all,” Beautiful Stranger’s smile is lethal. It’s shaped like a heart (how??? Yuuri's screaming internally), and stretches so wide that little lines form in the corners of his eyes— lines that only make him more attractive because Beautiful Stranger clearly has some kind of demonic power on his side. There’s no other explanation— and there’s nothing that could keep Yuuri safe from that weapon of mass destruction.

Yuuri’s saved from responding, (something like “your smile isn’t safe, but it sure is sexy,” passes through his head) by a flying arc of fur catapulting over the back of the couch and right onto his shoulders. He screeches as Potya digs her claws into his back and somehow maintains the presence of mind to yell “get the carrier now!” at Beautiful Stranger— before dissolving into howls of pain.

Beautiful Stranger grabs the carrier from on top of another scattered pile of condoms and holds it just underneath Potya, gently prying her from Yuuri’s back and placing her in the carrier.

“We should do something about your back,” Beautiful Stranger says, his words hit in a hot puff of air against the back of Yuuri’s neck.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri protests. Were his knees always this unstable?

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll deal with it later.”

“It might become infected,” Beautiful Stranger says, steering Yuuri to the couch, “where’s your first aid kit?”

Yuuri sighs, “kitchen. Under the sink.”

Beautiful Stranger comes back with gauze, bandages, and hydrogen peroxide.

He also chooses this moment to introduce himself as Victor.

“Yuuri,” Yuuri whimpers.

“Love the shirt, by the way,” Victor says as he walks towards the door, Potya’s carrier slung over his shoulder. Yuuri looks down at his chest; he’s wearing a royal blue t-shirt that says “I Hope Your Day Is As Nice As My Ass." First, Yuuri curses Phichit for buying him this shirt, and then he curses their apartments' superintendent for letting the building's washing machine exist in a continual state of flux between “broken” and “barely functional."

“I guess there is truth in advertising after all,” Victor winks and then waves good-bye, “It was nice to meet you!”

Yuuri’s sure both parts of that statement are lies. But at least he’ll never have to see him again.

 

(Oh god, he’ll never see him again.) 

____________________________________________

 

Because the universe is somehow both cruel and indifferent, Yuuri sees Victor again two days later in the lobby of his ballet studio. Yuuri finishes his advanced pointe workshop and winces as he walks down the hall to the lobby. His new shoes aren’t broken in yet. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, he’s painted with a full body flush, and he’s wearing a shirt Phichit custom ordered that says “Tastier Than Katsudon,” in screaming neon orange.

“Hi Yuuri!” Victor’s beaming and blocking his only exit.

“Hi, Victor,” Yuuri pushes his hair out of his face. It stays back from the sheer amount of sweat already on his scalp. Ugh.

“I was hoping I’d see you again!”

What.

“I asked Yuri about you when I dropped off Potya, and he said the nicest things,” Victor says, continuing a conversation Yuuri didn’t know they’d started.

Yuuri makes an inhuman noise that Victor—for some reason—takes as a cue to continue.

“Oh yes, he told me ‘he’s not a total embarrassment of a danseur,’ I’ve never heard him say anything so nice about anyone other than his grandfather.”

Yuuri can’t argue with that, though a large part of him doubts Yuri said it at all.

“He also said, ‘stay away from him, you old pervert.' He’s awfully protective of you. It’s sweet.”

“Are you sure it was Yuri and not three cats in a leopard print hoodie?"

Victor chuckles and continues beaming, “well, he did kick me in the shins and tell me I was a disgrace to humanity. So… I’m pretty sure.”

 

(Yuuri thinks Victor’s probably a little weird if he can smile while recounting recent bodily harm. It’s the first crack Yuuri’s seen in a perfect, polished exterior. He likes it. His shoulders drop incrementally from their perch underneath his ears. )

 

“Insults and injuries _are_ his preferred forms of affection. You'll probably be okay,” Yuuri manages to return Victor’s smile.

Victor's grin is a little sly, “I’ll tell him you said that.”

Yuuri crosses his arms in front of his chest, “if he kills me, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“Let’s be honest, of the two of us it’s more likely that he’d murder me. But don't worry, if it comes to that I promise I’ll haunt you too.”

“I don’t know if I’ve heard of a mutual haunting pact before. We live in the twenty first century though, so I guess anything's possible.”

Victor glances over Yuuri’s shoulder, they’re smack in the middle of the lobby and there’s a stream of students parting around them.

“Let's continue this conversation over coffee.”

Yuuri nods. He can't English right now. 

(It’s not a date. It’s a friendly conversation.)

He tells himself it’s not a date when Victor places gentle touches on his arm and the small of his back. It’s not a date when Victor programs his number into Yuuri’s phone so they can trade pictures of their dogs. And it "definitely was not a date _Phichit,"_  even when Yuuri opens Victor’s contact information later and sees that Victor's typed his name surrounded by several purple hearts—two on each side.

____________________________________________

 

(When he asks Yuri who Victor is, Yuri just scowls, “that asshole? Nikiforov’s a family friend.”

That's all Yuri will tell him. The last name jostles his memory though, and Yuuri finally realizes where he’d seen Victor before—on grainy VHS tapes ripped from live broadcasts, huddled around an ancient TV with Yuuko on the decaying armchairs that live in the backroom of Ice Castle. Victor had had long hair then.

“Does he skate?”

Yuri rolls his eyes, “you could say that.” )

____________________________________________

 

Next week, Victor’s waiting in the lobby when Yuuri gets out of class. He’s wearing a shirt that says “World’s Greatest Dad Bod.” Yuuri’s going to complain about false advertising. If Yuuri ever works up the nerve to send it, Victor Nikiforov is getting a strongly worded letter of complaint. 

He does not expect Victor to wave him over for a conversation. He looks behind him to make sure Victor's not trying to talk to someone else. Yuuri points at himself, and Victor nods. 

“I got you something,” Victor says, after Yuuri's approached. He presents Yuuri with the gift bag he’s been holding in his left hand. Yuuri doesn't know how constantly embarrassing himself in front of Victor has elevated their relationship to the level of gifts. Yuuri wonders what quota of embarrassment he hit that qualified him for pity presents. 

He takes the bag anyways. It’s a bit wrinkled—there are creases in the little gold skates dotting the outside—but there’s silver and gold striped tissue paper peeking out of the top, and it’s clear someone took time to wrap whatever’s in there.

“Open it,” Victor’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to peer into the bag as though that will somehow make Yuuri open it faster.

Yuuri bites his lip, hold the bag by one of the handles, and slips out the tissue-paper to reveal the contents: a black shirt that says “Blink If You Want Me,” in bold uppercase white letters, and another that says “Date Me, I’m Russian,” in red.

Yuuri gapes at the shirts for a full minute.

“I had to custom order the second one,” Victor says, as though Yuuri’s not dying right in front of him. 

“So…?” Victor asks, like he's waiting for an answer to a question Yuuri doesn't remember him asking. If Yuuri didn’t know better, he’d say Victor looks nervous. But he does know better.

“So….?”

“Will you? Go on a date with me?”

As though Yuuri would refuse. He nods. He doesn’t trust himself with words, so he goes for an awkward side hug— trying to communicate in Victor’s own language of touch. Victor beams.

And then he pulls another package out of his messenger bag. “I got this one too!”

He holds up a shirt that says “I Love Katsudon."

“Now we can match!”

____________________________________________

 

At the beginning of their first date, Yuuri gives Victor a t-shirt that says “ **Shirt of Shame. Wearing this shirt denotes that the wearer made a cringe-worthy pun or really bad joke deserving of shame. The shirt is to be worn at all times until those present agree for the wearer to take it off, or if the wearer makes a really good joke, or after 36 hours**."

Victor smiles that wide, heart-shaped grin. He doesn’t stop smiling even once he’s got the shirt on. It should look terrible over his collared button up. It doesn't. 

They arrive at the restaurant and are seated in a small corner booth. The hostess shoots no less than five jealous glances at Yuuri and Victor, like she doesn't know who to envy more. 

After they’re seated—orders taken, drinks in hand—Yuuri leans in a bit and asks “Can I tell you a secret?”

He’s looking at Victor from beneath his eyelashes while spinning the straw in his drink.

“Of course,” Victor breathes, leaning across the table and reaching for Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri’s scared Victor’s going to spill his wine. Victor’s drawing small, soothing circles with his thumb over Yuuri's palm.

“I hate those stupid joke shirts.”

Victor’s eyes go wide, and a flash of what Yuuri thinks is disappointment flits across his face. Then he pouts, “well. I’m going to have to arrange alternate gifts for our next twelve anniversaries. And see if I cancel my last order.” Victor’s smile shifts to _just this side_ of devious, “or….you could model them for me.”

Yuuri chokes on his drink. But then he steadies himself. He’s not going to lose this game on the first date, “maybe. It depends what you’re willing to do to earn it.”

“That’s really a long list,” Victor’s grin is blinding.

"Oh really?" 

"Mhmm, some might say it rivals _War and Peace_."

They talk about Yuri’s growing leopard print obsession (“I’m pretty sure he tried to put Potya in a leopard print jacket the other day”), Yuuri’s fast approaching graduation, and Victor’s desire to go back to school (“I like what I do, but I’m not sure that I love it anymore,”) for a degree in sports medicine. They talk about Yuuri’s family and Victor’s friends. They talk until they hostess kicks them out of the restaurant. 

Victor tells the worst jokes Yuuri’s ever heard with an un-holy amount of glee. Yuuri can’t stop smiling.  He snort-laughs a half a glass of champagne through his nose. By some miracle (maybe Yuuri did make a demonic pact and just doesn't remember?) Victor's charmed. Yuuri’s never been on a better date.

 ____________________________________________

 

When Victor drops Yuuri off at his door afterwards, angling for a kiss, Yuuri presses his lips to the corner of Victor’s mouth and whispers, “after all those jokes tonight I might have to get you a couple more of Shirts of Shame." He pulls back and pauses in pretend thought, pressing the tip of his index finger to his lips—an imitation of Victor's own gesture, "though now that I think about it, I’d prefer you wore nothing at all.”

Yuuri wonders if that’s what he looks like when he flushes.

Checkmate.

“Good night, Victor.”

“Good night, Yuuri,” Victor squeaks.

____________________________________________

 

Yuuri hopes the T-Shirt Thing will stop being A Thing once they start dating. Yuuri’s also heard that the Denial River is a lovely summer vacation destination.

Really, he should have known better. He’s best friends with _Phichit_ and he's _dating_ _Victor_. Victor Nikiforov has never been met a thing that he couldn’t turn into A Thing. Phichit is only too happy to play enabler.

A month into "officially" dating, Victor stays the night at Yuuri's apartment for the first time. They cram into Yuuri’s double bed and Victor’s going for a gold medal in spooning— subdivision: Maximum Skin Contact. They fall asleep with Victor’s arms wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, their hands resting low on Yuuri’s stomach, fingers intertwined. Victor presses a soft, slightly wet kiss to the base of Yuuri’s neck and whispers, “good night,” against his skin.

Yuuri wakes the following morning with Victor sprawled all over him and Vicchan curled up against Victor’s back. He extricates himself as best he can to go to the bathroom. When he comes back, Victor’s already awake and demanding to be the little spoon.

 

(“This is a partnership, Yuuri. That means we take turns as the big spoon and the little spoon.”)

 

Yuuri falls back asleep pressed up against Victor’s back and wakes up to an empty bed. He rubs sleep out of his eyes and pads into the kitchen. Victor’s standing at the stove, making what smells like eggs, and Phichit’s sitting at the kitchen table with a grin that’s only ever meant Trouble.

“Good morning, Yuuri!” Phichit chimes, turning to Victor expectantly.

Victor turns around, and when Yuuri sees what he’s wearing, he’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body. Victor’s wearing the “Orgasm Donor,” shirt.

“Victor!”

“Yes?” Victor flutters his eyelashes innocently. Yuuri’s not falling for it.

“That shirt? Really?”

Phichit’s barely trying to hide his laughter behind his hand.  

“Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, I’m disappointed in you,” he shakes his head, “we've talked about this. You _know_  I’m all about truth in advertising! After all, I'm in ads. I have to believe in what I'm selling!”

A sly smile, then, “and I’d be happy to make another donation anytime,” he has the audacity to wink.

It's then that Yuuri notices Phichit's been filming the whole conversation on his phone. 

“Phichit, don’t you dare post this to Instagram!”

“I would never! How dare you besmirch my honor," Phichit gaps, pressing the palm of his hand to his chest. 

“Besmirch?" Yuuri shoots him an incredulous look, "At eight am on a Saturday?”

 

(Phichit posts it five minutes later.)  

____________________________________________

 

Six months into their relationship—after Yuuri’s moved in to Victor’s apartment and Victor and Phichit ensure all of the shirts make the move with him—Victor’s bought so many custom t-shirts that the company gives him a “buy ten, get one free card,”.

 

“Most of these don’t even make sense!”

Yuuri’s holding a shirt that says, “Can’t Chair Less."

“Where’s the chair Vitya? It’s just a black shirt with text!”

“It’s art, Yuuri, it doesn’t have to make sense,” Victor sniffs, “I thought you of all people would understand me. It’s avant-garde. I’m too sophisticated for my time."

“You ordered this while you were drunk, didn’t you?”

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

 

(Yuuri orders him a shirt that says “It’s All Vodka and Fun, Until You Drink and Pun.”

Victor wears it to practice the next day.)

____________________________________________

 

The t-shirts became A Thing, and remain A Thing.

It’s 7:36pm on a Wednesday night, the 13th of December when Yuuri accepts it’s A Thing. Yuuri wipes his palms on the front of his slacks—and then immediately regrets it when he’s left with a pair of partial handprints on his thighs.

Victor’s running late. Victor’s rarely late.  Yuuri glances around the restaurant, but by some cruel twist of fate Victor hasn’t magically appeared in the last thirty seconds. He nudges the bag at his feet. He’d asked Mila to help him find the same bag Victor had used a year ago—white with little golden skates.

“Yuuri!” Victors here, his face is a little flushed, and he’s…coming from the kitchen?

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, reaching up to drop a kiss on Victor’s cheek.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Victor smiles and—even after a year—Yuuri’s so gone. He doesn’t think that’ll ever change.

“Why did you come through the kitchen?”

“I had to park in the back. They were nice enough to let me in through the service entrance,” there’s a telltale twitch in Victor’s jaw that means he’s lying.

“Vitya—“

“Let’s order!” Victor waves a waiter over. 

Yuuri keeps an eye on Victor for the rest of dinner. He reaches out with his foot to give Victor a re-assuring tap on his calf, but Victor’s legs refuse to stay still and it ends up more of a kick than anything.

Victor expertly steers their conversation into safer waters, and Yuuri forgets to be suspicious, lulled by the steady current of comfortable conversation.

When they’ve finished their dinner, the waiter brings out a chocolate chocolate lava cake and two glasses of champagne.

“Yuuri—"

“Vitya—"

Yuuri grabs the bag from under the table; he’s got to do this while he still feels brave, “I know it’s not traditional but um…open it." He chews his bottom lip—he hasn’t been this nervous around Victor since they first met.

Victor lights up, “you got me a gift!” He tears into the wrapping, scattering tissue paper everywhere.

“I don’t know what else I would give you wrapped in tissue paper.”

Victor looks up from destroying the tissue paper, “technically you can wrap _anything_ in tissue paper, Yuuri. I must admit, I'm a little disappointed that you're limiting yourself. Use your imagination! A gift is a gift because of the intent behind it, not because of packaging.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yuuri rolls his eyes. Leave it to Victor to turn this into a pedagogic discussion.

Victor's finally gotten to the gift. “ _Yuuri,_ ” he breathes, holding the t-shirt up in front of him. His face is an odd mixture of happiness and frustration. His fingers are clenched around the fabric, knuckles turned white—but he’s smiling. He looks a little stunned, “I can’t believe you beat me to it!”

“What?” Yuuri croaks.

“Well I was going to do it tonight too, since it’s halfway between our birthdays. But _I_ was waiting until after dessert. Letting you have your sugar first—like a real gentleman,” Victor shakes his head.

“How does it look?” he asks, holding the shirt up in front of his chest, the white fabric and metallic gold “Will You Marry Me?” glinting under the lights.

“Is that a yes?” Yuuri's pretty sure his bottom lip is bloody. 

“Of course it’s a yes!”

“Well, then I think my _fiancé_ —“ Victors face flushes, “—looks amazing."

“Wow. Who would have known Yuuri Katsuki could be so sappy.”

Yuuri roll his eyes but smiles and says, “you know I’d do anything for you.”

Victor grasps Yuuri’s hand from across the table and places a kiss on the inside of his wrist before looking down at the shirt with a small, sly smile, “it’s a shame though—we could have saved on shipping.”

“What?”

Victor reaches into the pocket of his coat, and pulls out a small bag—also with gold skates—and hands it to Yuuri who opens it and reveals an identical shirt.

Victor’s beaming across the table, “we can match at our joint bachelor party!”

____________________________________________

 

That night, naked and cuddled under the covers, Victor in his preferred position of little spoon, Yuuri realizes something. He bites his lip. Did Victor—

“Vitya?” he asks against the back of Victor’s ear.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ask Mila to help you too?”

“…yes.”

A moment of silence, and then they both burst into laughter, holding one another in the dark. 

____________________________________________

 

It's two months later and they’re sitting in their bed—Yuuri on his laptop, Victor on his phone, Makkachin and Vicchan curled up by their feet—when Victor tries to convince Yuuri they should wear those awful shirts that look like tuxedos at their wedding.

“But….t-shirts! It’s our thing!”

“No.”

“But Yuuuuuuuuuuuri,” Victor whines. Yuuri's developed an immunity to that tone of voice out of self-preservation. On their third date Victor had used it to convince Yuuri they should go to a petting zoo; a goat ate Yuuri's pants.

“No, Vitya. If you’re good, we can wear them on our honeymoon,” Yuuri leans in, breath tickling Victor’s ear, “and I’ll let you rip it off of me.”

 

____________________________________________

 

They wear suits to the ceremony. Victor saves the t-shirt scraps for their wedding album.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you made it to the other author's note!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> fun fact for those who made it this far: the puns as the basis of all great literature thing is REAL and I read it in a literary theory class. Unfortunately I cannot remember which theorist it is (Tzvetan Todorov?? Mikhail Bakhtin?? Viktor Shklovsky??? Someone else with a name that's also difficult to type???) and alas my notes are 3000 miles away in storage boxes. The mystery remains.
> 
> (I have a very blurry mental image of the exact page it's on (SUPER HELPFUL -_-). It was at the start of a chapter of some text I cannot remember. It wasn't the main argument either. This has literally been bugging me for years at this point. No, I'm not joking. It's actually been years. I've arm wrestled google over this and lost. Literally no one other than me cares about this. I'm just eternally salty.) 
> 
> Clearly the best way to show my love is to grumble about literary theory....
> 
> Meet me in Barcelona and we can exhange rings.


End file.
